


For the Want of a Good Agent

by Rehfan



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - Ian Fleming
Genre: Anal Sex, Fear of Rejection, First Time, Loneliness, M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Rimming, Self Confidence Issues, Virginity, virgin!Q
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2017-12-29 16:03:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehfan/pseuds/Rehfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q is a workaholic virgin who has committed himself to the idea of being forever alone.</p><p>That is, until James Bond starts hitting on him.</p><p>(From a Tumblr prompt by runemarks)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Now turn left, Bond. That’ll be the terminus of the corridor,” said Q. Q Branch had their collective breath held. Everyone watched the red dot on the main monitor. Only Q could hear Bond’s labored breathing. He stood tall at his desk, but inside Q was coming out of his own skin. He wanted to save Bond, to pull him out of that military installation with the power of his own two hands. What he was doing now was as close as he would ever come to it. “Look up, 007,” he said softly. “There should be a ventilation shaft imbedded in the concrete above. Do you see it?”

There was a pause and a grunt. “Yes,” said Bond. “I see it.” There was a clang of metal that seemed to echo and reverberate forever. “Shit.”

Q felt himself go perfectly still. He held his breath along with Bond. Nothing stirred over the comm. Q knew that if he asked about Bond’s well-being it would simply cause the man to flinch. And any flinch in this moment could put the agent in more danger, or worse. The sounds of shifting clothing and more grunts came after a long empty moment. Q let go his breath.

“Bond,” Q began again. “As soon as you’re in, you need to head south.”

“Q?” said Bond. His voice was annoyed. “I’m rather in the dark here. Literally.”

“Oh right,” said Q. Then…” He tapped a key to bring the map out a bit. “That would be to your left, Bond. Sorry.”

Bond sighed and the comm carried the noise of his scraping progress through the concrete shaft. “How far does this go, Q?”

“Approximately,” said Q, tapping again, “six hundred metres.”

“You’ve got to be joking,” said Bond.

“But you only need to travel sixty three more,” said Q.

“That’s more like it,” said Bond and he shuffled and grunted in Q’s ear. As he moved along, Q allowed himself a small smile. He looked about and nodded to Tanner who was waiting expectantly in the corner of the room.

“The chopper will make its rendezvous point as soon as he surfaces. The team is ready,” Tanner assured Q.

“Tell Tanner I’ll be ready, Q,” said Bond. Q relayed the message and continued to listen to the almost sexual grunting on the other end of the comm. If he were alone at that moment, Q would enjoy those sounds. As it was these days, he had to find his more physical pleasures where he could. He listened greedily as the grunting and breathing continued, allowing himself a small moment for a wave of lust to wash over him before returning to the comm as soon as he heard the sounds of the chopper. “The grate just above your head leads out, Bond,” said Q. “Be careful and we’ll see you in a few hours.”

“Looking forward to it, Q,” said Bond. Q could hear his relieved smile through his voice. “And Q?”

“Yes, 007?” said Q.

There was a bit of a pause. Q heard the zip of a ripcord rope and a voice asking for Commander Bond. The chopper was dead above Bond. “Thanks,” said Bond.

Q allowed himself a tight smile. “Just doing my bit for queen and country.”

 

~080~

 

Later that night, Q was finishing up his end of the AAR that M expected in the morning. He was alone in Q Branch, the others having gone home hours before. He called up the latter half of the digital recording of the mission communication. He was supposed to destroy this temporary copy after placing a copy of it to the main encryption server. He selfishly allowed himself one last listen to the playback of the final minutes of the recording. Bond’s heaving breaths came back to him.

“Seven hells,” Q muttered as he listened. He cleared his throat and secured the earbuds more tightly in his ears. He closed his eyes, clasped his hands, balancing elbows on the tabletop. His knuckles pressed his lips and for a sultry five minutes and forty-seven seconds he imagined the huffing, scraping, and grunting was happening just behind him. It was enough to get his cock mildly interested.

As soon as Bond said “Tell Tanner I’ll be ready, Q,” he turned off the playback and took a breath. With the click of his mouse, the filthy sounds were gone from his terminal. Q hurried home to get himself taken care of. The ride on the tube seemed interminable.

He burst into his little flat, flinging his satchel onto the sofa and headed straight for the shower. It was somehow always better to do this sort of thing in there. He stripped off in a flash and hopped under a lukewarm spray. Letting the spray warm up as he wet himself all over, he closed his eyes and attempted to recapture the sound of Bond. It took a few minutes, but he managed to convince his dick that it really did want to respond to his desperate need for sexual connection.

A few minutes later, panting with effort, he managed to orgasm. He scrubbed himself clean and padded to his bedroom, a towel about his waist, another scrubbing his hair dry. He sat on the edge of his bed and listened to the kitchen clock tick. “Christ, this fucking sucks,” he muttered to himself.

He was suddenly hungry, but too lazy to move. He chose sleep instead. As he drifted off, his dreams conjured up an image of Bond, a bemused smile on his face. “You really are a mess, aren’t you, Q?”

Q registered dismay and hurt.

“No one seems to stay in your life, do they?” continued Bond. “They just drift in and leave as soon as they see how completely erratic you are as a lover. Which is to say that you aren’t one. Jesus wept! Half the time you have to talk yourself into getting it up when you masturbate! What sort of man are you? Why would anyone bother with you?” His dream chuckled low and Q rolled over, seeking deeper, dreamless sleep. He found it seconds later.

 

~080~

 

“And so I told the general that he could go get stuffed,” said Bond. Laughing boffins of Q Branch surrounded him and gave Bond the appearance of holding court as he practically lounged on someone’s desk, seated with one leg up, the other on the floor. As Q approached, he noticed that there was a fresh cut above his left eye, but it only added to his rakish good looks, damn him.

“Is there a reason you’ve decided to hold storytime in my department, 007?” asked Q. As soon as his voice sounded, the staff scattered back to their posts in a flurry of labcoats.

“Aww, I was just getting to the best bit, Q,” said Bond. “Shame.” He watched with mock disappointment as all the workers moved away and went back to what they should have been doing all along. He flashed a smile at Q who responded with a clinical blank stare.

“If you’re quite through, 007,” said Q, exasperation tingeing his tone.

“Of course, Q,” said Bond. “Here is your Walther and what bullets remain.” He held up a box and a plastic bag; the box contained a scraped-up disassembled weapon, the other, precisely three bullets.

“Your generosity knows no bounds,” said Q.

“I know,” said Bond. “And then, there’s this.” He reached into his pocket and held up a small box.

“I gave you a car, Bond,” said Q. “This doesn’t look like a car.” He turned the velvet hinged box over in his hand. “I suppose it could carry the key to a vehicle. Is it the key to the vehicle I gave you? No. Of course, it couldn’t be. The vehicle I gave you - the eighty-thousand-pound vehicle I gave you with forty-thousand pounds worth of modifications invested in it – that vehicle was driven off the side of a seven-hundred metre dam just outside your last mission parameters. So this couldn’t possibly be the vehicle or any small part of it at all.” Q glared at Bond.

“It’s a peace offering, Q,” said Bond.

“Get stuffed, Bond,” said Q. He slapped the box down on the desk and moved past the agent. He headed toward his small private office that was too tiny for him to do anything constructive in and set down his satchel, lunch, and Bond’s returned weapons and ammunition. He would register their return as soon as he got rid of Bond and regained control over his department.

“Christ,” said Bond, following him in and stopping just beyond the threshold, “is this what they gave you for an office? Fuck me, but you don’t have enough room in here to change your mind, Q.”

Q pushed past him again, his brain faintly registering the solidity of the man as his shoulder pressed against his chest. “And that would be why I work out here, Bond,” said Q curtly. “Now if you would please leave me to my work.”

Bond took a deep breath and gave Q an evaluating stare. “You know,” he said softly, “it’s times like this that I could absolutely eat you alive, Q.”

Q flushed a deep crimson. “I-I beg your pardon?” He straightened his glasses. He always straightened his glasses when he was nervous.

Bond narrowed his eyes. A small smile appeared on his lips, but he said nothing. He walked toward Q, making for the door. As he passed him, he grabbed his arm just above the elbow, giving it a squeeze, and leaned in toward Q’s ear. “Eat. You. Alive,” he growled and gently kissed Q’s cheek.

Q felt the blush’s heat spread to his ears and another more urgent heat spread in his belly. He said nothing. He simply watched Bond’s coolly retreating figure and tamped down the sudden urge to run home and have a shower. Instead he stuffed his hands in his pockets and discovered a small black velvet hinged box hidden there. When he looked back to the doorway, Bond was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

“What the hell is this?” said Q. His hand was in his trouser pocket so that he could put his smartphone in, but it met with resistance. He put his phone in the opposite hand, wrapped one arm around the pole in the tube train, and pulled out the black velvet box. He had forgotten all about it. He shook his head. This is why he constantly kept getting rejected by people; he couldn’t stay focused. Bond’s words came back to him: _Eat. You. Alive._ What must his brain be cluttered with for him to be able to forget something like that?

A small, cynical, angry part of him wanted to report Bond for sexual harassment in the workplace, but his heart wasn’t in it. After all, the last time someone made a pass at him was… no. He couldn’t remember. And as far as giving him gifts; Bond’s gift was the very first of its kind. This was a milestone moment.

The oblong box waited ominously in his fist. It was only a few ounces in actual weight, but to Q’s brain, it felt leaden. The train swayed as it came to a stop and he almost dropped it, seizing it tight in his fingers as they fumbled to open it one-handed. He looked around nervously to see if anyone saw his blundering. As per usual, no one looked at anyone on the tube and Q focused back on his prize.

It came open with a small creak of newness and Q was instantly confused by what he saw. He thought it would be a bracelet or a watch, or perhaps a pen, but Q stared at the object dumfounded. It was a tiny torch, with a clear housing so one could easily see the inner workings. It was four inches long and the lens on the end was about three-quarters in diameter. It had a loop at the opposite end with a ring attached and was obviously meant to connect with a ring of keys.

His first romantic-type gift was a mini-torch.

_A fucking mini-torch._

Was this meant to be corny and symbolic? “I carry a torch for you” or some shite? Q couldn’t make heads or tails. This didn’t feel very romantic. It felt like Bond taking the piss. It didn’t even light up when he flicked the switch. Son of a bitch. The bastard didn’t even put batteries in.

He snapped the box shut and stuffed the broken-and-very-practical-yet-decidedly-NOT-romantic gift into an exterior pocket of his satchel. In his head he could hear Bond laughing at him and he blushed, humliated at the thought. The train swayed and stopped again. He got off, angry and distracted, and looked about realizing too late that he had gotten off one station too early. The noise of the train covered up his muttered oaths of frustration as he waited for the next train to come along.

 

~080~

 

He walked into his flat and threw his satchel on the sofa, his body shortly following in a tired heap. He took out the box again and opened it. “I don’t suppose that you know that this was my first gift from anyone even remotely special,” he said to no one in particular. “I don’t suppose you even care.” He picked it up and held it in his hand. As he did so, one of the inner workings slid across the inner barrel. Q tipped it to the other side and it slid back. “Good Christ, it’s broken.”

He looked all over the handle for a way to pry it open and he couldn’t find one. He tried unscrewing the cap at the light end and only succeeded in hurting his hands. It was sealed shut. “So where the hell… Oh!”

He shook the light back and forth fast. He was reminded of the schoolboys of his youth and their dirty joke of shaking his can of fizzy drink when he wasn’t looking so that when he opened it, it sprayed all over him. He wished he could hunt those bastards down now that he was MI6, but some people weren’t worth troubling with. Some wounds needed to just stay closed.

After a bit of vigorous shaking, Q turned on the torch. It was the brightest beam he had ever seen come from something so tiny and he smiled at his small victory. “A torch that doesn’t need a battery because it is the battery. Michael Faraday, you beauty. Nice one, Bond,” he muttered.

He shone the light against one bookshelf and then the mostly dying potted plants before grinning like an idiot and shaking his head. “Get a grip, man. For fuck’s sake, it’s not tickets to the opera.” He turned off the sitting room light and went to bed, using the torch to light his way.

As he moved the beam across the floor, the lens threw an uneven quality of light before him and he frowned. He sent the beam to a blank bedroom wall and gasped.

“Dinner, Q?” he read.

Q’s legs gave a little and he sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the beam’s message. He took a ragged breath and felt his eyes well up. “You utter shit, James Bond.”

He turned off the light, shutting his eyes to complete the darkness around him and felt warm tears come down his cheeks. “You perfect, wonderful, stupid, useless, maddening, utter shit.”

 

~080~

 

James looked down at his phone for what had to be the millionth time that day. Still no response from Q. Bond convinced himself that after a day and a half, Q must have thrown it out. He had never gotten his message. He couldn’t decide if he was more angry or hurt.

The telly in the pub was shit and the owner/manager/whomever was slapping the remote as though it were the remote’s fault that the television had perfect audio of the football game, but no picture. A customer shouted across the room for the owner/manager/whomever to get his fat arse over to the cable box and wiggle a wire or two. Bond sipped his beer and thanked fuck he was back in good old England.

His phone vibrated and Bond gave a casual glance down. Alec. Shit. Bond scolded himself for getting his hopes up. He opened the text. Oh good, Alec had sent him a dirty limerick. Clearly that was a message of great import. Bond rolled his eyes and took another sip of his beer. “I should have never taught that idiot about limericks,” he muttered into his glass.

He pressed the side of the glass against his face and stared down at his phone. He only had one sip left and he was hoping that he wouldn’t have to finish his beer. He had promised himself that if he had finished his beer and he still hadn’t heard from Q, he would give up on pursuing him.

The phone remained silent. Bond sighed and finished his glass.

Outside the wind whipped his coat up and Bond wrapped it more tightly around himself, knotting his scarf and tucking it beneath the thick wool. He put his hands in his pockets and walked back over the Thames toward MI6. At the center point in the bridge, he stopped and watched the water. His gaze ran its length and he took a moment to absorb her beauty. He wondered what comment Q would have about this view. On the day they met, he had a comment about the Turner painting. It had caused Bond to mistake him for an insipid and tiresome Uni student. He had since changed his opinion.

Now it seemed the agent wanted Q’s opinion on everything. He found him intriguing; scatterbrained at times, but most geniuses were. He wanted to know more. Preferably over dinner as the boy didn’t seem to stop long enough to eat. More than once Bond had caught Q with a half-eaten biscuit and a cold cup of tea at his elbow while he worked diligently at his computer typing almost faster than Bond could follow.

Bond glanced over toward the direction of MI6. He had to keep trying. Even James Bond could tell that he was too far gone about the boy.

His pocket buzzed. Eagerly he looked at the screen.

“23 Harrison Lane, 1600h – Q”

Bond smiled. Was this him accepting his offer? As he glanced at the time display his face fell. Sixteen-hundred hours was only twenty minutes in the future. And it was too early for dinner. Bond sighed. This wasn’t an acceptance to dinner; this was an assignment rendezvous. He was being sent on another mission. Fuck.

 

~080~

 

“Ah, Mr. Bond?” said a man in a bespoke suit.

“Yes,” responded Bond as he walked into the private bank.

“My name’s McCreedy, Aaron McCreedy.” He extended his hand and Bond shook it.

“Did you wish to speak to me?” Bond asked, expecting a package to be provided him.

“Right this way, sir,” said McCreedy and he led Bond up a glass lift to a private office in the back of the building. “I was asked to give you this.” He held out a square white envelope and a small velvet box. Bond didn’t inspect them; he merely placed them in the inner pocket of his woolen coat and nodded his thanks. McCreedy smiled at him and escorted him out.

Bond felt stupid; this was like no operation assignment he had ever received before. A letter and a box? What the hell was this? He found his way home and sat at his kitchen table. The envelope was plain, no writing, no seal other than the simple gum seal all letters had. The box held a heavy silver butane lighter; it was good quality, but there was nothing out of the ordinary about it.

Bond opened the envelope. It contained a single piece of paper folded in half. It was blank.

Bond turned it this way and that, peered at it, held it to the light; nothing. Not so much as a watermark blemished the thing. He fanned himself with it as he thought and the breeze held a distinct odor: lemons. Bond sniffed the paper in confusion. “Oh you must be joking,” he muttered.

He picked up the lighter and held the paper near it enough to be warmed by the flame. Bond’s grin spread and he laughed when he read the one word he’d been waiting to hear for a day and a half: YES.


	3. Chapter 3

An obscure movie theater in the heart of London provided a perfect opportunity for conversation topics at the small Moroccan restaurant afterward. It was terribly cliché, but Q longed for cliché. He had never really had cliché but a handful of times. And it always ended the same: as soon as things turned from the intellectual to the physical, he started putting up walls. He had to protect himself because the physical was where it all went tits up. They only wanted to fuck. That was the whole point for them being with him. It was never to get to know him or to really want to be with _him_ … it was all about the orgasm. And finally, at the end of the evening, when push really came to shove, and his date found out that he wasn’t going to put out on the first date… or the second… or the third - that he was some form of non-sex-having freak - it was suddenly over. It was always just… over.

It seemed no one had any patience with the erratic behavior of a highly intellectual, workaholic and therefore slightly unreliable, socially inept, and sexually awkward genius. But Bond had seemed to censor himself where sexual advances were concerned; there was no innuendo in his conversation at all. Instead he seemed to delight in being able to get Q to laugh about things that were actually funny and strange: silly stories from missions past, relatives and relations, friends and foes. And he seemed to be genuinely enjoying himself. They both were. Q thought it a miracle at first and found himself relaxing and opening up, discussing politics in one moment, favorite music in the next. But as the evening wore on, the first and most important ominous moment arrived: the goodnight kiss.

By all accounts, Q was a good kisser – he wasn’t too familiar with much more – so with the average date he wouldn’t be intimidated, but this was James Bond. Word around the office had reached him well before he knew of Bond’s personal interest in him that Bond was somewhat of a lothario and Q’s knees fairly trembled when they stood on the front step of his flat. He was losing confidence by the second.

The conversation waned. Q made a quiet comment on the weather. Bond murmured his agreement. He seemed to be quietly waiting. That didn’t help Q’s nerves at all. He knew what he was waiting for. Q knew that it would all come down to this for Bond. If Q screwed up here, it would mean the end of yet another relationship and good luck with working comms on Bond’s next mission where he had to seduce the marquess of something or other to access the secret files of this baron or that. And he’d have to listen to it. It would be awful.

Yet here they both were and Bond continued to wait, his eyes taking in everything about Q. Q could feel sweat form on his brow as a blush furiously formed on his face. Finally, Q buckled. He held out his hand. “Good night, James. And thank you,” he said.

Bond stared dumbly down at Q’s hand, but quickly held in any crestfallen expression as he looked Q in the eye and shook his hand. “Q,” he said and nodded his thanks. Then he walked away. He just stepped off and away, his leaving causing a void to develop in the space that his body once occupied. It was practically palpable and threatened to consume Q whole.

Q inhaled shakily as he struggled to put the key in the lock. He couldn’t wait to put the door between him and Bond. He wanted to be able to let his anxieties out without an audience. He had fucked up. He knew it. The handshake was the coward’s way out and Bond was so fucking gracious about it, and he really did mind, but he was too much of a gent to say anything and oh fuck, this was NOT how he wanted things to go, but he just wasn’t normal, was he, and _why won’t this goddamned shitting key go in the fucking lock_? “Q?” said Bond. The keys fell from his grasp.

“Y-yes?” Q replied as he scooped up the keys and turned back. _Please let this be over. Please let this be over._

“I really enjoyed tonight,” said Bond. “I’d like to do it again, if you don’t mind.”

“You would?” said Q, running a hand through his fringe nervously. He had been sweating. Bugger.

Bond smiled. “Sure,” he said. “You name the place and time. And this time: just text me. Secret messages are cute, but at heart I’m more of a straight-to-the-point type of bloke, alright?”

“Righty-o,” said Q, smiling nervously and hopping a bit on the balls of his feet. As soon as Bond’s eyebrows went up in surprise, Q realized what had escaped his mouth. He felt the tips of his ears burn with his embarrassment. “Yes,” he corrected. “Yes, of course, James. Sorry. I’ll do that.”

“Alright then, Q,” said Bond. “Think of something you’ve always wanted to do and we’ll do that. Just get in touch.” And with a wink, he strolled down the street, hopped in his car, and drove away.

Q slammed the door behind him and leaned heavily against its surface, sliding down slowly to the floor. He wept.

Between thinking he had failed to being allowed a second chance, it was all too overwhelming. And what about that second chance? What else was it but a chance to be a complete nervous wreck all over again? Q prayed fervently for a sudden stroke or a stampede of wild llama to come through his door and crush him.

 

~080~

 

Things had gone well or so Bond thought. As he drove home, he mulled over all the things that had happened on their date. The movie was an independent, low-budget film with rave reviews. The theater was an old tube station that had been slightly re-designed and was fitted with old sofas and chairs for patrons. There was a bar at the back. It was a unique spin on the classic “movie date”. Bond thought it was perfect. Going by Q’s body language, he had been nervous and stiff in the beginning, taking in everything around him as though a snake was under every chair or a scorpion was planted in every drink. Bond recognized this and acted accordingly; he never made a physical move toward Q that wouldn’t have been socially acceptable in broad daylight in a convent.

And Q responded well to that treatment. By the time dinner was served and they were both up to their knuckles in chicken tagine, they were swapping stories and exchanging philosophies comfortably. Q seemed happy. It was nice. It was surprisingly nice.

Bond smiled to himself as he parked his car and turned the engine off; for the first time in recent memory, Bond had felt human that night. He found happiness in Q’s laughter and the light in his eyes as he discussed topics that he felt passionate about. He wished Q would smile more when he was at work, but for the work they did, smiles were rare. More’s the pity.

By the time Bond reached the lift he had decided that the sweetest sight he had ever seen was Q’s tendency to bow his head, cocking it to the side whenever he smiled, giving Bond an amazing look at his long eyelashes against his pale cheeks. His shoulder would come up and he would seem innocently shy, almost childlike, and Bond wanted more of that.

He wanted Q to do that after he kissed him too. But then there was never that chance. Bond would have waited a lifetime for that kiss. But something he had said or done had spooked Q. Bond poured himself a whiskey and wracked his brains to come up with the thing he had said or done – or not said or not done – that caused Q to push him away. He could sense Q’s tension as they were heading to his flat. But he didn’t know what caused that. He couldn’t make heads or tails, and by his second scotch, he was still no closer to a solution. Finally, frustrated and half-horny with the thoughts of Q at his most open and inviting, Bond went to bed.

He lay there in the dark for some hours wondering if his offer of a second date might be ultimately turned down. Q was practically running away from him by the time he went to unlock his door, after all. Perhaps Bond was not what Q wanted. Perhaps James Bond, trained killer, was fine for Q the Quartermaster, but was too dangerous and threatening to be around Q the man.

Bond swallowed past a lump in his throat, turned on his side, and forced himself to sleep. There was no use in worrying about things he had no control over. Q was a grown man. He would decide what he wanted and what he didn’t want all in due time. All Bond could do was wait.

He closed his eyes and dreamt of eyelashes on pale skin and shy laughter, ruby lips and sparkling green eyes, and the promise of a kiss yet to come.


	4. Chapter 4

It wasn’t a revolutionary idea for a date, but it was all Q could come up with on short notice. The National Museum was doing a night viewing for a select group of people in the artistic community and Q hacked his way into two invites for the evening. Dinner, dancing, and fine art were all on the menu. He only hoped that Bond wasn’t too disappointed with his lack of skill on a dance floor. There was a twist in his gut as he considered it.

He felt he was acting quickly, but he didn’t want Bond to lose interest. Just the same, he was terrified out of his mind to not be seen as too eager. It had killed him to take the few days it did to set up the hidden message. He had wanted to tell Bond yes right from the start time and again, ever since he found Bond’s message to him, but he hadn’t the courage; his voice would crack and he’d have to clear his throat and then he’d blush and then it would be over, the moment gone forever. It felt like a lifetime between the time he saw the message and the time Bond eventually rang him to make the date when in truth, it was only a measly seventy-two hours. The whole thing was simply nerve-wracking.

He closed his personal laptop and stretched. It was later than he had anticipated staying up and work tomorrow would be hell, but Q considered his sleep sacrifice worth it. He rose from his sofa and walked off to the bedroom, got undressed and went to bed.

The sun had gone down hours ago. He could hear the clock ticking in the kitchen as he lay there staring at the ceiling. He wondered if Bond were thinking of him. He hoped he was. He hoped Bond didn’t consider him too much of a tosser based on their last goodbye. All the run-ins he had had with Bond over the last two days had been very professional. He wasn’t his usual smarmy self when he was in Q Branch; it was as though he was behaving himself for Q. That was just fucking weird.

Q wanted him to not be so “aware” of him. It was more of a distraction to Q for Bond to actually be paying attention during his debriefings. All of a sudden, Q was important to Bond and Q wasn’t used to the attention. Q sighed and turned on his side. He couldn’t understand what Bond saw in his skinny frame, pale skin, and bad eyesight. Surely there was nothing there to attract a suave and sophisticated killer-agent. There couldn’t be.

Q closed his eyes against the wave of despair that hit him and told himself that all it would take was one or two more dates and then Bond would lose interest just like all the others. Then Q could go back to being his work-focused self. Nothing would upset his tummy. Nothing would cause his voice to crack. And nothing in the world would make him so stressed out as picturing James Bond in bespoke tuxedo sipping champagne and moving him across a dance floor while the upper-crust of London artistic society looked on with awe and wonder.

 

~080~

 

This was a stupid idea, thought Q. He stared at himself in the mirror of his little flat. The suit was the best he could do on short notice. It was a deep navy, with double-buttoned vest. The coat had black lapels and he wore a black tie with it. He felt like a bruise. He shook his head as he heard the knock at the door.

In the seconds after Q had opened his door he realized two things: Bond’s figure in a tuxedo literally took his breath from his body and the man’s eyes should be classified as deadly weapons.

“My God,” muttered Bond as his confident smile wavered and he looked Q up and down in a slightly shocked manner.

“It’s not proper enough, is it?” said Q, the twist in his stomach getting more pronounced as the seconds ticked by. “I should have hired a tuxedo. I should have-“

“You look amazing,” Bond breathed. His tone was reverent. “Jesus, Q.” Bond stepped beyond the threshold and inches away from Q. “Simply gorgeous,” he whispered and leaned in, softly kissing Q on the mouth.

Q closed his eyes and melted into the kiss, nervousness forgotten. All that existed was the light smell of cologne, the slight scrape of stubble, and the pressure and flavor of Bond’s mouth. Q’s eyes fluttered open after the kiss ended and he had to mentally restrain himself from leaning in for another. He swallowed against the butterflies that had returned and managed: “We’d better get going.”

Bond nodded and stole another peck on the lips. “Get your coat. It’s chilly.”

 

~080~

 

The fete was perfect. Couples danced in rooms 16 through 22, food was provided for in the café near the entrance, music was everywhere, and Q was relieved to see that there were couples of all kinds all around. There was always a sense of trepidation when one attended a party where there would be dancing. Q loved to dance, but he wasn’t very good; mostly because he hadn’t had many opportunities. Social gatherings where gay couples co-mingled with straight ones always had an air of repression about them. No one ever minded if you were queer, as long as you weren’t actually dancing with your partner. Q seemed to vaguely remember reading something about society seeing dancing as a part of intimate courtship – the closest one was permitted to come to sexual intercourse in public. And heaven forbid anyone see two homosexuals enjoying themselves.

But here, in this atmosphere of artists and bohemian elite, no one so much as batted an eye. It was unusually comforting and Q felt himself relax within minutes of their arrival. Bond snaked a hand around his hip and offered him a glass of champagne proffered by a passing waiter. Q accepted and they toasted the evening ahead. Champagne tingled on his tongue and Q sipped politely as they strolled about the galleries.

Room 21 seemed the busiest with people and dancing as it was first to the right off the main stair. Q was about to comment on the Turner when Bond stopped him. “The only work of art I’m interested in is you, Q.”

Bond finished his champagne, took Q’s out of his hand, set them on the floor right below “The Fighting Temeraire” painting (rather irreverently, Q thought) and moved Q to the center of the room, one hand on his hip, the other grasping Q’s hand. He moved just as Q suspected he would: smoothly and with no apparent effort. It was their first dance and the crowd around them disappeared.

Bond’s eyes became Q’s universe and neither man said a word as they glided across the room. Q tried desperately not to think about what his feet were doing because he knew that the moment he did, he would stumble and they would both go down in a heap and everyone would laugh and it would be awful-

“Breathe, Q,” said Bond. “You’re holding yourself too stiffly. Relax, darling.”

Q let go a bit and re-focused on Bond. “Sorry,” he said. “I just don’t want to step on your foot.”

Bond allowed himself a smirk. “You’re doing just fine. Actually, I consider it a bit ironic considering how often I have to follow your lead on ops.”

“Very funny, James,” said Q.

Bond chuckled. “I thought it was.”

Q kissed him on the mouth. He was too cute to resist. Bond looked impressed. “Cheeky boy. Kiss you once and you get daring. Have you no discretion? I mean, do we have limits as to public displays of affection?”

Q leaned in close, pressing the side of his face to Bond’s and whispering low into his ear. “Do you honestly believe that I give a toss what anyone in this room thinks?”

Bond laughed softly. “I should have kissed you sooner.”

They turned around and around in the shadow of the Turner, music enveloping them and carrying both of them away for the rest of the night.

 

~080~

 

“Well,” said Bond. “Here we are again.” They stood on Q’s front step and looked fondly at each other.

“Did you want a cup of tea?” offered Q. He wasn’t nearly as nervous as he was the last time, but that might have been the champagne.

Bond stepped close. “I want you.” He leaned in and Q let him. Sweet champagne only complimented the taste of James Bond. Q wrapped his arms about Bond’s neck and let the kiss deepen. The butterflies gave a small shout, but Q pushed them away. He focused on the kiss, the press of their bodies, Bond’s warm hands under his overcoat, under his coat, and along the back of his vested shirt. Q carded hands through Bond’s hair and along his shoulders and arms.

They panted a bit at the break, their eyes dusky with lust, cheeks reddened with arousal. “Tea?” Q offered again.

Bond smiled softly. “Best not,” he said. “I might not know where to stop and you’ve had a bit of champagne tonight.”

Q was surprised and shocked. “No,” he agreed reluctantly. “I suppose you’re right.” He kissed Bond softly. “I did have a wonderful time.”

“So did I,” said Bond. “Next one’s mine.” Bond nuzzled his nose into Q’s neck.

“Yes please,” said Q. “Where are we going?” He stroked the back of Bond’s hair fondly as he waited for his answer.

“I’ll give it a think and get back to you,” said Bond. “Alright?”

“Alright.”

“I have to be honest with you though,” said Bond, lifting his head away to look at Q.

“Hmm…?”

“I am sorely tempted to take you to Paris for the weekend,” he said.

“That’s a bit much for a third date, don’t you think?” said Q.

Bond nodded. “Yes, it is a bit of a leap.”

“I mean, my god, man. Start slower,” said Q.

“You’re right,” said Bond, placing a quick kiss to Q’s mouth before stepping away from him. “Scotland would be better.” And he walked away grinning like a Cheshire cat.


	5. Chapter 5

He’d been gone on an op for four months. Three Double-O’s were necessary, it seemed, and two of them met horrible ends. Q had read the AAR report filed regarding 003’s death; it made him physically sick. Sometimes he hated being quartermaster.

M had ordered that there be no extraction for 007. That had made Q furious. He had never argued with M before about any of his decisions but he had said dreadful things to the man over this. M told him to go home, that he was obviously over-stressed and needed sleep. But how could he sleep when Bond was out there alone? He had gone home, however.

He sat in the quiet of his sitting room and listened to the kitchen clock tick. He had been so worried about Bond that it surpassed all reason. He was unfocused. He was practically distraught. It was stupid. They had had two damn dates and it wasn’t supposed to mean so fucking much so quickly, but he had never had anyone in his life who _was_ his work before.

Previous relationships had taken place outside of work. But the two things had been so intertwined with Bond and him that it was difficult to establish that line of demarcation between head and heart. There was no line. There was only the crinkle of Bond’s blue eyes when he smiled and the touch of his rough hands gone warm and gentle as they cupped his face for another kiss. Q shut his eyes tightly and whispered to the darkness: “Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead.”

He opened them and felt helpless. There was a weight on his chest and he felt his eyes well up. “No,” he said and stood. “This will not do.” He grabbed up his satchel and coat. It was late, but he could always get access to Q Branch at any time, night or day, and that’s exactly where he was going.

The tube wasn’t crowded. Q sat and willfully ignored the young drunk couple who snogged each other tenderly at the other end of the car. His eyes sought distraction and they fell upon the car’s only other occupant: a Sikh gentleman listening to music with earbuds in and eyes closed. It was the longest journey of his life.

MI6 was quiet as well at that late hour. He did always like working late; less distraction made for efficiency and ease of concentration. His footsteps were the only ones in the corridors as he moved through Q Branch. He felt a wave of anger hit him that people could go home and sleep when there was an agent out there without an exit strategy. Namibia would not give up James Bond without a fight.

Q sat at his station and logged on. He brought up the mission specs and read through each and every report – including the distasteful demises of 003 and 001. Should Bond be successful in his mission and the attaché killed, he would need to be able to get out of the compound undetected. If he were detected… no. Q wouldn’t hear of it. He signaled Bond’s tracker to vibrate to let Bond know that he was still there, still listening, should Bond need assistance.

Q turned his head at the glow from the comm station. He went to it and by its light typed back the code that would be required for unscrambling the signal. The recorded message was twenty-three second long and had come in just under twelve seconds ago. Static burst in full blast and Q had to listen to the message four times before discerning what few words he could hear:

“....About ti-.... It’s awfully … it? I expect … on your own ….  …you’re aware: I can’t-…Q? I think … I have … request that you not … time comes… love?”

It was Bond’s voice, but the message sounded far off and the static didn’t help. Q used an algorithm to help clean up the edges of it, but he couldn’t get it better than it was. What was Bond trying to tell Q about “when his time comes”? Why was he talking like that? Why was he being so fucking morbid? Couldn’t he tell? Didn’t he realize that he was sick with worry?

Q went back to his computer station and got angry. “You are not giving up on me, James Bond,” he growled. His fingers flew over the keyboard as he hacked through Namibian government security firewalls to pull up building schematics and blueprints for the fortress that was the home of the targeted attaché. He grinned fiercely when he found everything he needed, but he couldn’t transmit what he’d found directly to Bond without testing the line first.

He pinged Bond’s mobile with a trivia question text – a prearranged signal for them to use to determine whether or not Bond was able to answer his phone peacefully or to warn them of trouble. He had thirty seconds to answer it before the question was moot and it would be understood that Bond had been either captured or had otherwise been separated from his phone. If Bond answered correctly (and Q bit his thumbnail anxiously waiting through that eternal half-minute), it meant Bond was in trouble. If it was incorrectly answered – with a very specific incorrect answer – then everything was fine.

“What is the capital of the State of Texas?” hovered there on his computer screen as the seconds ticked by.

The computer came alive as the answer appeared on Q’s screen: “Anaheim”

Q took off his glasses and rubbed his face. Thank Christ, he thought. He replaced his glasses and sent off the building schematics. If the British government wasn’t going to send in an extraction team to get 007, he could damn well do his best to assure that Bond has every advantage in order to save his own skin.

He watched the “transmitted” confirmation glow on his screen and sat back in his chair. It was up to James now.

 

~080~

 

“Well hello! It’s about time you got in touch. It’s awfully late there isn’t it? I expect you’re in Q Branch on your own, diligent nose to the grindstone.  And as you’re probably alone, I can make you aware: I can’t wait for our next date, can you, Q? I think Scotland is going to be wonderful. Although I have a humble request that you not take us for African cuisine when your turn comes, alright love?” James spoke into the transmitter and hit the send button. It was a simple device. James only hoped that he could be heard past the huge aircon system on the roof of the embassy and that it wasn’t too water-damaged to work properly.

It was quick work to dispatch the attaché. Drowning in one’s bathtub is a tad more discreet a death than a bullet between the eyes. And there’s not a lot of attention paid to someone who takes notoriously long baths almost every evening. His only regret was the loss of two good agents in order to obtain that tiny piece of information.

He couldn’t go back the way he came in, however. He was soaked to the skin in places. Stupid security detail notwithstanding, no one was going to believe that he got that wet by taking a simple walk outside when it hadn’t rained in weeks. And since rain doesn’t usually smell like coconut bath gel… Plus they were already suspicious of him as the “new butler” in the compound. He was thoroughly screwed if he didn’t figure out how to leave.

He placed a hand over his forearm where the tracing device had vibrated to alert him that Q was still there. He knew Q wouldn’t let him down. He might be scatterbrained, but he was a genius for a reason. His phone buzzed. Bond grinned as he saw the text message and sent the proper answer. After all, he was safe for the moment. He figured he had about three to three-and-a-half minutes before they came looking for him.

Bond’s phone lit up again and in the glow of its screen, Bond smiled widely. “That’s my baby,” he murmured.

 

~080~

 

Three days later, Bond still wasn’t home. Q had tried every means of communication left open to him. He had defied M’s orders and sent him the schematics of the building, sent him maps of the surrounding area, even sent him pictures of local flora that was edible. M was furious. He had accused Q of treating Bond as a special case. Q had told him that if he were so clever, two Double-O’s would still be alive and that he could bloody-well get stuffed.

Q sat at his station, the only light coming from the glow of his computer terminal as he watched the comm transmissions from every airport local to Bond’s last known location. His folded arms were set on the table in front of the keyboard, his mouth pressed into them, chair scooted back, feet pressed to the floor. One leg jiggled as he read line after line after line of transmissions looking for a clue, seeking a glimpse, of Bond’s presence.

The others had gone home hours ago. M urged him to go home as well, mollified by their earlier heated discussion. He hadn’t even acknowledged the man.

There was a soft sound behind him and Q spun around, eyes wide. He was visibly crestfallen when he saw Tanner standing there. “Just leaving now,” he said. “You coming?”

“No,” he replied.

Tanner laid a hand on his shoulder. “He’ll come home. He always does.”

Q knew he should be grateful for the sympathy, but he was exhausted and hungry and the hand on his shoulder wasn’t James’. “He’s not a Labrador,” he huffed.

“I know,” said Tanner, taking a step back. “Still… he is pretty reliable.”

“Yes,” he replied. “I’m sorry. I’m just… distracted.”

Tanner smiled softly. “It’s alright, mate. Don’t think less of yourself for getting some kip if you need it, will you? He’ll be fine.” He nodded toward the sofa in Q’s never-used cupboard of an office.

Q nodded and smiled weakly. He wished he could have Tanner’s faith. He watched as Tanner left and turned back to the monitor. He stared at it blankly for a few minutes before realizing there was someone standing behind him just off to his right. “Forget something, Tanner?” He turned to look and fell out of his chair.

Bond smiled down at him. “Dear God, how I’ve missed you,” he said. He helped him up bodily and without much thought or preamble, pressed him up against the nearest wall, placing a searing kiss to his mouth.

Bond’s hands were everywhere at once; he was voracious. Q felt rough calluses against his back and sides as Bond quickly snaked beneath his shirt and jumper to the warm flesh beneath. Sucking kisses were placed against Q’s neck and Q found himself helpless to resist a wanton moan and epithet. His hands held Bond’s head tightly to his skin one minute, groped at his clothing the next, fisting at the material and pulling it away from his body. He took his mood from Bond and his body responded in kind, pressing away from the wall and against the firmness of the agent, wanting to feel the man against him fully but not quite knowing where to begin. Q was running on instinct.

Where there was skin exposed, Q kissed it, licked at it. Where there was an ear within reach, Q captured it with his mouth and enticed it with words that he had only dreamed of using. Where there was clothing, hands twisted and pulled at it to get it away. The desperation of his actions set Q’s brain afire and the heat spread directly to his cock which had developed an interest in the proceedings at an alarming rate.

Soon Bond pulled his head away and gazed upon his handiwork: Q’s eyes were blown wide, cheeks flushed, lips an insane color of ruby, breath heaving, mouth begging for more. “Please James,” said Q. “Don’t stop. Please. I missed you so fucking much.” Q followed this up with a few nibbling kisses that were convincing enough for Bond.

“My place or yours?” asked Bond.

“Neither,” said Q. “Here. Now. Sofa. My office. Please.”

Bond gave Q an evaluating look. “No,” he said.

Q stopped. “What?”

Bond placed his hands on Q’s hips and leaned the length of his body into Q. “Listen to me,” he began, “I could have never hoped to have someone in my life with whom I could share my life completely. But you know everything, Q. You’re there with me on mission after mission – even after you’ve been told off – and you’ve never let me down. And I know: you see that as simply doing your job, and it is. But, the way I see it, you could just leave it at that and bugger off home like everyone else does at night, but you don’t. You’re here. And I know that I can rely on you thoroughly – on and off mission.

“I want to trust you, darling. I want to be there for you too. I want to come home to you. Because you see what I see and you understand. Do you have any idea how rare and wonderful that is for someone like me? I used to think that something like that would be a weakness. But with you it’s not a weakness because you’re not some civilian. You’re in it with me. You know what I have to do and you stand by me. Why do you think I started this with you in the first place? Don’t you know how much you mean to me?”

He placed a soft kiss to Q’s lips before continuing: “And so now you want to get physical. Ok. Fine. But I’m not spending my first night with you on a sofa in Q Branch like a randy teenager. We’re going to do this properly, you and I; because this means something. You and me: we _mean_ something.

“I don’t want you like that,” he said nodding to the office door. “I want you like you should be: my lover in my bed. Or yours. Whichever. Wherever we are, whatever we decide, I want it to mean something. I want what we have to not be the casual crap I have on a mission with whatever tart has whatever information I’m trying to extract. _You are not a mark. You are mine._ And I’m yours. So... no sofa. Because we mean something to one another, alright?” He cupped one hand behind Q’s neck and kissed him sweetly. A thumb stroked Q’s cheek as he nodded to answer Bond’s question.

“Besides,” said Bond, “I’m a bit too exhausted to do any good to anyone in bed tonight. What do you say we just go to my place and you let me feel grounded again.”

“How do I do that exactly?” asked Q timidly.

“Just let me hold you, kiss you, feel you, be with you,” he said. “Alright?”

Q kissed his answer to him and they left Q Branch arm in arm.


	6. Chapter 6

“Quartermaster,” said Tanner. He looked guilty. “Sorry. M wants to speak with you.”

They had just reached the lobby and were about to pass through security when he had spotted them and stopped them. Bond and Q turned to face him. “What?” asked Bond. Q looked annoyed. He knew what M wanted. Q hadn’t been assigned to Bond’s team on his last mission. For the past three days he was supposed to have been supervising the development of a new coding system to make their digital files more secure. He had only read 003’s AAR because all the AAR’s came across his desk for signing off to account for lost or damaged equipment. He had defied M’s orders. He had gone against protocol. He had broken ranks. And now he had to pay the piper.

“Is he here?” asked Q. It was late. He expected that M had gone home with the majority of MI6.

“No,” said Tanner. “But he is on comm.”

“Why did he call in, Tanner?” asked Bond.

Tanner looked sheepish. “I called him. I… reported that you were back.”

“Christ,” Bond muttered. To Tanner he said: “You couldn’t have waited until the morning?”

“I- I’m sorry, 007,” said Tanner. “I saw you. I thought you were stopping in to report. I didn’t know that you two were… I mean- I thought it might be the case, seeing as how Q was so worried lately, but I didn’t know…” His voice trailed off when he saw the look that Q shot him. “I’m sorry.”

Q turned to Bond. “I’ll only be a minute.”

Bond shrugged and sat on one of the benches in the corridor. “I’ll just wait here then,” he muttered and folded his arms.

Q stormed into Tanner’s office and turned the monitor toward him. “Sir?” he asked.

“I need you to equip Bond for another mission,” said M. “Tanner has the details now.”

“What? He’s just gotten back! This is against regulations, sir,” said Q.

“And now you care about regulations?” retorted M. “Do it, Q. And get him gone in an hour's time. We need him.” Q couldn’t believe his ears. He shook his head and M gave him a sour look. “You’ll be running the op with him, damn you. Stop pouting.”

“Oh,” said Q. “Well, that’s different.” He paused and said: “Will you want him back?”

“What?” asked M, clearly annoyed. “Of course we will.”

“It’s just that on the last mission there was no exit strategy and-“

“Yes,” said M. “and that’s why we need to act fast. If the Home Office finds out that it’s Bond out there, I want them to have no choice about it.”

“It was Home Office that ordered him on that suicide mission?” asked Q.

M sighed. “They thought he might be damaged goods after the Bogota mission three months ago. They thought him expendable.”

Q remembered the body count from that one. Mostly children. Bond had been quiet, but he had seemed stable. Q imagined him now, sitting there in the lobby, post-mission and twitching, needing to be grounded, needing him. “Fucking morons. Very well,” said Q. “I’ll get him as ready as I can and send him off. Where’s he going?”

“Scotland,” said M.

“Seriously?” asked Q.

“Of course,” said M, “and from there he’s off to Oslo. He’ll make contact, pick up the item, and bugger back to our Scottish safehouse until he’s told to return to London. But he’s got to be quick.”

Q couldn’t help but smile. “Let me do what I need to do at my end and I’ll take him to Scotland personally.”

M raised an eyebrow. “Yes,” he said slowly, a revelation perking him up, “I think you could both do with a breather away from London for a bit. Run the op remotely from the safehouse. That’ll lessen the Home Office’s access to the op. Very good, Q. Make it happen.”

“Yes sir,” said Q.

“And Q?” said M.

“Sir?”

“Have a good time.” He smiled and winked at him, knowingly.

Q felt himself blush, but he didn’t care. “Thank you, sir,” he said and logged off. He turned to find Tanner holding out a laptop bag and his satchel.

“The rest is ready to go in TSS,” he said. “Just say the word and I’ll get a car brought around.”

Q smiled at him. “Thank you, Agent Tanner.”

“If you leave now, you’ll make it in about nine hours. Your destination is Cruden Bay, north of Aberdeen. Mission file is in your satchel. Good luck.”

Q had never been so happy to go on a mission in his life.

 

~080~

 

“It’s cozy enough for your needs,” said Teresa. She guided them into the little bungalow that would serve as their base of operations for the mission Bond was to go on. It was a simple affair: a sitting room with sofa, desk, kitchen table, and electric fire, toilet with a bath at the back, small kitchen with clothes washer off the sitting room to the left, and bedroom off to the right. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

Teresa had been with MI6 for years and was currently retired, but was glad to be able to have a hand in it from time to time. This was her farm and no one came to call who wasn’t invited. “Sorry that there’s only one bed, but if memory serves, the Double-Os never really slept all that much. The kitchen is well-stocked, but no pheasant under glass, you understand. Pensions can only afford so much and MI6 is tight with a tuppence as always.”

“It’ll be fine,” said Bond smoothly. Q could tell that he was wanting to get rid of her as soon as possible, but he made no comment. He simply located a small desk and set his computer and satchel down. “And my transport?” asked Bond.

“He’ll be here in twenty minutes,” she said. She wished them all the best and left them in peace.

Q shivered as he took off his coat. “Best leave that on until the fire heats the room,” suggested Bond. It was a good suggestion. The three coils glowed red hot and Q prayed it would do for warmth. “Tea?” offered Bond.

“Yes please,” said Q. Bond disappeared into the kitchen. Q took his bag full of personal items to the bedroom and set them on the mattress. It was a generous queen size and it looked so bloody comfortable, but there was too much to do in too little time. He went back to the desk and unpackaged the other bags, spreading the contents over desktop and the small kitchen table in the corner. Bond moved silently about him, unpacking what he needed and gathering the bibs and bobs for his assignment.

The silence between them was comfortable. The drive up had been pleasant, filled with mission discussion and personal tales. Q liked the sound of Bond’s voice as he drove them along for the first leg of their journey and when Bond wasn’t driving, he was the most attractive sleeper. Q attempted to focus on the road ahead, but in the early light of dawn, Bond’s eyelashes rested pale on his cheek and it was all Q could do not to drift into other lanes of traffic with the distraction.

A kiss placed itself on the side of Q’s neck and he leaned into Bond’s warmth with a hum. “I’m sorry the evening didn’t exactly go as planned.”

“No worries,” replied Q. “You did threaten to take me to Scotland, didn’t you?” Bond chuckled against his skin. “Looks like a self-fulfilling prophecy to me.”

“I’ll try to make this whole thing quick, Q,” said Bond. “And then I’ll be back to you. I promise.”

Q turned to face him, took his face in his hands and kissed him full on the mouth. Tongues met and slid, and Q’s hands pushed back along the curve of Bond’s skull, cupping his head and deepening their connection. Somewhere in the distance, a kettle was boiling.

“That’ll be the tea water,” said Bond.

“Uh-huh,” agreed Q as he turned his head for another kiss.

There was a knock at the door.

“That’ll be my transport,” managed Bond with lower lip caught in Q’s teeth.

The kiss broke with a wet pop and Q sighed. “I really can’t win, can I?”

Bond grinned. “Patience, love, patience.”

The knock was repeated.

“You get the kettle,” said Bond, as he reached for his Walther, “I’ll get the door.”

Q walked to the kitchen and tried not to sigh again. This was going to be a long day.

 

~080~

 

The day mission took until six the next morning. As soon as Q heard that Bond and the package were safely aboard the transport and they were in harbor once again, Q signed off on the comm and fell into bed, managing only to kick off his shoes before wrapping the duvet all around him and falling into unconsciousness. The farm was a fifteen-minute journey to the port and Q wasn’t worried. Bond was home and he could relax.

His dreams were non-existent, his sleep was so deep. He didn’t hear Bond return to the cottage. He didn’t hear him strip off. He didn’t hear him sigh as he gazed upon Q’s mop of black hair – the only thing visible beneath the duvet – and he didn’t hear Bond join him in bed. What he did pick up on was cold hands and warm arms and firm chest pressing, enveloping, slowly waking him out of his stupor. He raised his head and traced his cold nose against a warm neck. Slits of creamy jade, heavy with sleep, made out the face of James Bond and Q smiled. The kiss was warm and tired and Q nuzzled into Bond’s neck seeking out his sleep once more.

Bond closed his eyes at last. It seemed like years since he’d had any decent sleep and his body craved that more than oxygen. The mission was supposed to have been simple, but as always things had to go a bit pear-shaped. The good news was that no one died and what property damage that had occurred happened to people who could afford to have things fixed. Lord knows that hotel lobby wouldn’t be the same.

But that was the past and Bond heaved a deep sigh, breathing in the scent of Q: tea, mint, and oranges. Bond couldn’t help but card a hand through his tresses, watching through peeking lazy eyes the play of the raven hair in his fingers. _How are you real, he thought, how did I get so lucky?_ He pressed his cheek to Q’s hair and let sleep take him, contented.

 

~080~

 

Bond awoke to relative darkness. It was late the same day as he had returned. A glance at his mobile let him know: 2100.  He heaved a sigh and realized that he was very hungry. He turned his head and saw a moonlit Q still abed, still wrapped up in most of the duvet, and snoring lightly. Bond grinned and tugged at the duvet, moving closer to Q to ward off the chill the night had brought. He placed a kiss on Q’s cheek. He looked good with a bit of stubble, more mature. He placed another soft kiss against Q’s temple. He wasn’t sure if he wanted Q to wake, but if he did, he wanted to make sure that he awoke to something pleasant.

Q had been so nervous that first night. He looked so peaceful now. Dark lashes against his cheek, dark hair mashed against his face. Bed head looked good on Q for some strange reason and Bond smiled again. He could imagine the man as a wee boy, investigating insects under rocks with dirty knees and dirty hands, that great mop of hair in his eyes. He carded another hand through Q’s hair and kissed his cheek once more. Q stirred.

Soft light green eyes fluttered open and Bond knew he wanted to see that every day. “Hello, love,” he said. “Hungry?” He kissed Q’s cheek again and Q turned his face to kiss Bond’s mouth.

“Yes,” he said. “Morning.”

Bond nuzzled his neck. Speaking against his skin, he said: “More like nighttime. Tea? Toast with jam? Eggs? Porridge? What do you fancy, pet?”

“All of the above,” said Q. “And then you.”

“Well you have me now,” said Bond. “Why not have pudding first?”

“You corrupter,” teased Q.

Bond showed him how corrupting he could be by kissing him deeply and slowly while pulling up his shirt and getting a hand beneath the clothing. Q hummed his approval. Bond then snaked his hand underneath the waistband of Q’s pants and trousers, following the skin, soft and warm to the crack of Q’s-

“Stop,” said Q, stiffly backing off and pushing Bond away gently.

“Sorry,” said Bond. “I thought… I mean- the other night you were…”

“I- I know,” said Q, trying desperately not to have a panic attack. _Not here. Not here. Breathe. Not here._ “I’m sorry, James. I really am. I just… uh. This isn’t exactly… I’m…” _Shit. What the hell? Shit._ “I’m not exactly uh…”

“Shh…” soothed Bond, pushing his fingers through Q’s hair and leaning over to make the eye contact that Q was so pointedly trying to avoid. “What is it, Q? Talk to me.”

Q looked at him, helpless. “I wish I could explain,” he said. _I wish I could explain that I’m a complete fuck up and that I’m broken and you shouldn’t want me and you can’t want me and why do you want me? I’m nothing anyone wants. What the hell are you doing with me?_

“Q, you’re beginning to hyperventilate,” said Bond, noting his erratic breathing. “Slow down. Nothing is going to happen here unless you say so, alright?”

His eyes were so kind and caring, Q wanted to die. He felt his eyes well up and he knew he looked like a tosser. “I’m sorry,” was all he managed. Bond held him closely until he stopped shaking.

“Promise me that you’ll tell me what’s wrong eventually,” he said. “I don’t need to know details now, but I would like to know sometime. Alright?” He felt Q nod against his chest. He rubbed his back and cupped the back of his head.

Q was so ashamed and completely grateful. He felt undeserving. Here was this trained killer being patient for the likes of him! And why? It made no earthly sense that this beautiful man who could have anyone he wanted would seek him out. Q tried to remember what Bond had said back in Q Branch, but none of the words seemed to stick. He felt a right tit.

“You’re very important to me, Q,” said Bond. “I hope you realize that. This isn’t just another affair for me. This is you and me. I’m never going to hurt you like they did – like they must have!” Q brought his head up to look Bond in the eyes. “I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to do. I’m not them, whoever they were.”

“Who?” asked Q. He had lost the plot.

Bond sighed and brushed Q’s fringe back, looking more at his hair than in his eyes. He didn’t want to frighten Q all over again. “I know that someone – perhaps more than one person – hurt you. You reacted like… well… like a victim just now and I want you to know that you are safe with me. I would never hurt you, Q. You are precious to me. Alright?”

“You- you think I’ve been… abused?” asked Q.

“Haven’t you?” he asked.

“No,” said Q. _Jesus Christ…_

“Did I hurt you just now?” asked Bond.

“No,” said Q. “You just… startled me. I’ll be fine. I just need… a bit more time, I think.” He looked in Bond’s eyes and quickly added: “And I’m sorry about that. I really am. I’m not trying to be a tease or anything. I swear.”

“I don’t think you’re a tease.”

“Oh?” said Q, relieved. “Good. That’s good.”

“A bit bewildering, but not a tease,” clarified Bond.

“I’m sorry,” said Q.

“Will you stop apologizing?” said Bond. “You don’t have to be sorry for not being ready. Sex is a tool I use in the field, but in my personal time, it’s something I usually do to relieve stress between missions. You are neither of those things. You are something entirely different. I knew it from the moment we met in the gallery. And I think you did too.”

“It was all I could do not to drop the radio transmitter,” Q admitted with a blush and a small smile.

“There’s my love,” said Bond, tipping up Q’s chin with a finger. “Better now?”

“Yes,” said Q. “I am s- uh… Well… you know.”

“I know,” said Bond and gave him a soft kiss to his lips. He traced his fingertips down Q’s throat and watched his reaction to the touch. Q closed his eyes and let his head fall against Bond’s shoulder. “This OK?” Bond asked and Q nodded. He moved his fingers back up Q’s neck and traced the shell of his ear. “How’s that?” he asked.

“Good,” breathed Q.

Bond kissed the edge of his mouth and traced his lips where his fingers had been: down, kissing collarbone, and up, kissing ear. All was done gently, feather-light, and with the utmost delicacy. Q swallowed hard and felt heat spread to his belly. “You are so precious to me,” Bond repeated softly into Q’s ear. “Never doubt that.”

After a few minutes of fingertips tracing the map of where lips caressed and kissed, Q felt every inch of his skin north of his collarbone tingling. He was so relaxed into Bond’s ministrations that when they stopped it was almost shocking. “Wh- Where? Hey… please? More?” Q managed.

Bond leaned up on one elbow and said: “Two things: first, I have to pee. And second, I have to eat. So… I will use the toilet first, then I will head off to the kitchen. May I suggest you use the toilet after me and then get right back in this bed because I’m going to arrange a picnic right here. How does that sound?”

Q grinned. “That sounds like a fantastic idea.”

“Yes,” said Bond. “I’m glad I thought of it.” He smiled, kissed Q and then ran out of the room.

Q sat up a bit and rubbed his eyes. He was still kicking himself over the crap job he had done earlier. He shook his head. “You really have no idea what you’re doing, do you, you freak?” he muttered to himself. “You are going to fuck this up just like you always do, aren’t you? Shit.” He rubbed his eyes again and heard the toilet flush.

He cast the duvet aside and glanced toward the kitchen as he made his way to the bathroom. Bond stood there in his skivvies, seemingly immune to the chill in the room as he peered into he refrigerator. Q shook his head and smiled, closing the bathroom door behind him. He looked at his reflection in the mirror and wondered what the hell James Bond saw in him. After all, he was just a hopeless virgin, wasn’t he? He shut his eyes and tried not to cry. How was he ever going to tell him? Should he? He was lost in enemy territory without a map or an exit strategy. And he didn’t want to lose this battle. But what could he do?

For the first time in a long time, Q felt utterly rudderless. He hated himself.


	7. Chapter 7

There was a knock on the bathroom door. “Q? Do you like figs?”

Q had just finished using the toilet and was washing his hands, still mulling over his dilemma. He brought his head up and saw his own perplexed reflection in the mirror. “Figs?”

“Yes,” said Bond. He repeated his question slowly: “Do you like figs?”

Q was confused. A minute ago he was on the verge of tears, uncertain of his next move with Bond. It hurt him that Bond seemed so unaware of his turmoil and a big part of him didn’t want him to know that he was upset. “Y-yes,” he finally answered. “I do.”

“Wonderful,” said Bond. Q heard him pad back to the kitchen. Pots and pans slid about and Q sat on the toilet seat to take stock.

Outside that door was a wonderfully compassionate man who seemed to need him. It was a bit odd to think of James actually needing anyone, but then, it would probably be difficult for people to believe that Q had moments of weakness. He did his best to be as professional as possible when on the job. And he really did love his job; it was demanding, challenging, and provided him with the frustrating and highly rewarding task of keeping track of trained killers. He smiled at the thought of ordering Bond about at work. It was rather fun to tell a government assassin what to do.

Now that same man wanted him on a more personal level and Q was terrified. Bond trusted him with his life. Why couldn’t Q trust him with this secret? And why did it have to be a secret? It wasn’t as if he were intentionally a virgin. It just sort of turned out that way.

“This is stupid,” he said to himself. He left the bathroom and glanced off to his right. Bond was cooking something in a frying pan. He caught Q’s eye and winked.

“Go back to bed, gorgeous,” he said. “I’ll be in in about fifteen minutes.”

“What are you doing?” asked Q, the smell of something rich and sweet reaching out to him. “That smells wonderful.”

“I’m trying to surprise you, you pillock!” said Bond. “Get back to bed.” Bond walked to him and grabbed him quickly behind the head, planting a sweet but quick kiss to his mouth. “Go.”

Q grinned like an idiot and did as he was bid. As he laid himself back down under the duvet, the chill of the evening nipping at his skin, he placed his face on Bond’s pillow and breathed in his scent. It was then that everything truly hit him: they were alone in the Scottish highlands in a small cottage in the middle of nowhere; there was a stunningly beautiful man cooking him something to eat in the kitchen; and that same man was eager to not only fuck him senseless, but happened to be more than capable of doing exactly that.

That tore it. He would tell him. Right after he let Bond take him any way he wanted.

 

~080~

 

“Fresh fig compote spread on crusty bread with Brie cheese melted on top and drizzled with balsamic vinegar,” said Bond as he presented the plate to Q and climbed into the bed beside him. “And I’ve cut it into bite-sized pieces so that you don’t have to use your hands.” He picked up one of the morsels and placed it into Q’s mouth. The crunch of the bread, sweetness of the fig, milky bite of the cheese, and the savory tang of the vinegar melted on his palate.

“Christ,” said Q around his mouthful, “that’s wonderful, James.”

“Not bad for a man who rarely cooks,” said Bond taking a bite himself. Q reached for a piece and Bond stopped him. “Ah ah! No you don’t.” He picked up another piece and fed Q.

Q indulged in slowly licking the tip of Bond’s thumb before releasing it from between his lips with a soft pop. Bond’s mouth hung open as he watched Q’s mouth chew and slowly swallow. “You fucking flirt,” said Bond. Q grinned. Bond smirked wickedly and said: “If that’s the way you’re going to be… I think I’ll give you an opportunity to express yourself.”

Bond took the plate from Q’s lap, lay down on the bed and placed all the pieces of food on his chest and abdomen. He discarded the plate to a bedside table, laced his fingers, and rested his hands behind his head. Smiling at Q, he said: “Ready when you are, Quartermaster.”

Q was breathless at the sight. “Where do I begin?” he whispered.

“Anywhere you like,” said Bond.

His eyes met James’. “Thank you.” He bent his head low and licked up a piece near Bond’s hip. He chewed and licked, kissed and caressed along Bond’s taught skin, smearing dark vinegar all over his face and Bond’s chest. Neither man gave a damn. Q licked at Bond’s nipple, nibbling at the nubbin of flesh as Bond’s breath stuttered and his eyes fluttered closed.

Q ate one succulent piece after another. Bond’s hips undulated. Q glanced down and noticed his prominent erection. A wave of panic went through Q. Quickly he looked at Bond's face; his eyes were closed, his face flushed. Bond gave Q no indication that he was rushing Q into anything. He simply took whatever Q was giving him. He just let himself go. Q had full control of this.

As he ate the last bite,  wave of panic ran through Q. What if he decided that this is all he wanted from Bond? Would he be angry? What would he do? The man was a trained assassin capable of taking a human life. He could snap Q’s neck and go rogue… but that was ridiculous. Q took a moment to shake his head. “Anything the matter, love?” asked Bond. His bright blue eyes looked kind but amused.

“I wasn’t expecting this,” said Q. He didn’t know what else to say.

Bond reached a hand out and caressed Q’s hair, moving his hand down to swipe at a bit of vinegar at the corner of Q’s mouth. “Take your time,” said Bond. “I’m all yours.”

Q leaned in and kissed him. “Be patient,” he said. Q trailed kisses down Bond’s throat. Bond let out a low moan. He continued his trail of soft licks and kisses straight down Bond’s chest, savoring the warmth of his skin, the taste of the lingering vinegar, and, as he gained the waistband of Bond’s pants, the musky scent of James himself.

Q nuzzled his nose underneath the edge of the material and licked the skin softly, lapping at the taste of him. The muscles tightened under his mouth, the hips bucked a bit, and Q became emboldened. He pushed his face further under the material and passed his tongue over the tip of Bond’s erection. “Fuck, Q,” said Bond. “Please, love… darling… gorgeous….”

Q hadn’t performed fellatio before. For a split second he was terrified that he wouldn’t be able to please Bond, but he remembered the advice given to him long ago by a close friend: “If it feels good to you, then it’ll feel good to them. Just use your imagination. Empathize.”

Q removed Bond’s pants and threw them onto the floor. He took the base of his cock in one hand, his balls in the other and swallowed down on Bond as far as he could go. Bond let go with a cry and the man’s hips bucked up, nearly choking Q, but he held his ground. He sucked off hard, coming off the tip with traces of spittle hanging wantonly from his mouth and looked up toward Bond. To say that Bond looked helplessly debauched would be an understatement. Q smirked and went down again, keeping a slow steady rhythm that soon had Bond calling out his name like a mantra. He caressed the agent’s balls and kept firm hold of his shaft until his mouth worked Bond to the point of warning Q about his impending ejaculation. “Q… shit, Q. I’m going to cum, Q, please.”

Q came off him and gripped the base of his cock firmly, staving off the crest of his orgasm. Q watched as Bond came down from his high and as soon as he was able to re-focus his eyes on him, went down again with a pumping of his fist and his tongue licking all around the glans. He kissed and caressed the corona, flicked the frenulum, and sucked the shaft until Bond was aching to get off and begged Q to let him cum.

“P-please, Q,” said Bond.

“Now why would I want you to cum like that?” said Q. Bond looked perplexed. Q explained: “You aren’t even inside me yet.”

“Oh fucking hell, Q,” said Bond.

Q crawled up Bond’s body and straddled him. “Take off my clothes and fuck me, James,” he whispered into his ear.

Bond grunted and pulled at Q’s clothing. Soon the quartermaster was divested of every single stitch, flipped on his back, and Bond was placing biting kisses that were barely restrained all along Q’s chest and abdomen. If Q had thought himself hard before, by the time Bond was done with him, his cock was aching to be ministered to. Q was certain he could cum at just a touch.

“Over you go, you filthy boy,” Bond growled in his ear.

Surprisingly, Q wasn’t nervous. He wasn’t… anything. He wanted this. He wanted this with Bond. And he was fully prepared to do whatever it took to make Bond happy.

Bond seemed completely content to kiss Q’s arse for the moment. He had Q with his arse in the air, had wrapped both arms between his thighs and was massaging his arsecheeks with his hands as they snaked up and around his hips. Q’s head was buried in the pillow and his eyes were shut tight. He had never done this before either, but he’d always heard it was amazing.

Bond did not disappoint. The warmth of his face pressed between Q’s cheeks and he felt Bond delicately lick and kiss at his opening. He pushed back against the pressure and moaned. He forced himself to relax. “More, James,” he panted. Bond plunged his tongue in and hummed with pleasure. Q cried out wantonly. The sensation was incomparable to anything he had ever imagined. Penetrating himself with his own finger, exploratory of course, had been odd and unsatisfying. This was another dimension.

Independent movement of Bond’s tongue, the girth of it, the heat of it, was all completely blissful and beautiful and it made Q melt into the mattress and clutch at the sheets. He needed more. He wanted more. “Fuck,” was all he managed.

Bond’s strong hands caressed down his back and clutched his hair. Q had had his hair pulled by boys in school who were intimidated by his intelligence and saw him as an easy target because of his build. It had been an unpleasant experience. This was the exact opposite. He was amazed at his body’s response to this stimulus that had formerly been so negative. He never wanted Bond to stop.

Several minutes of Bond’s ministrations at his arsehole caused Q’s balls to tighten. He was actually going to cum from this. Bond didn’t even touch him. A wave of panic hit him and he brought his head up a bit. “I’m going to cum if you keep this up, James. Please… what do you want?”

Bond pulled away from his hole, kissed and bit his arse and said: “Then cum, Q. Just fucking cum for me.” And he dove in once more, tongue extending and wiggling another moan from the quartermaster. Bond tightened his grip on Q’s hair and felt the man press his arse toward his face, hips moving rhythmically back and forth as though trying to fuck himself on Bond’s tongue. Bond gave one more low, slow hummmmmmmmmmm….

Q came with a cry of “Fuck! James… shit! Fuck me fuck me fuck me… Gaahhhhhhh!”

Q collapsed to the mattress, a heaving, sweating, filthy, keening mess. He couldn’t have been happier. But then- his eyes flew open. “James…” he said. “you didn’t… I mean, you wanted to earlier. I meant for you to…”

“Shh…” soothed Bond. “Did you want me to? Still? I mean, even now?”

“Yes, James,” said Q. He was certain that this is the way he wanted it to be. “Take what you need from me. I want you to cum inside me.”

A soft kiss between his shoulder blades was Bond’s response and he heard the rip of a condom wrapper behind him. Firm warm hands spread lubricant and a finger slipped easily inside him. Q was barely aware, such was the state of his brain, post-orgasm. He felt himself relax into the slow rhythm of Bond’s hand, pushing in and out.

The second finger burned a bit and Q tensed up. “Shh…” said Bond. “Relax, sweetheart.”

“I- I can’t, James,” said Q. “I’ve never-“

“Shh… I know,” said Bond.

Q’s eyes flew open wide and he looked back at Bond. “What?”

Bond placed a soft kiss at his temple. “Do you trust me, Q?”

Q looked at him for only a moment before responding: “Y- yes, James.”

“Then bear down,” he said.

“What?” asked Q.

“I hate to be indelicate, darling, but bear down as though you’re taking a shit,” said Bond.

Q was confused and a lot less aroused than he had been a few moments ago. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Bond sighed. “It’s how it’s done,” he explained.

Q stared. “Are you taking the piss?”

“Nevermind,” he said, slowly withdrawing his fingers. “We’ll try this again some other time.”

“What?” said Q. He had done something wrong. He had exhausted Bond’s patience. He knew this would happen. It always happened. What the fuck was wrong with him? Why was he always doing this?

Bond moved away and got up. “I’m going to clean up,” he said. “Get some rest, love. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

“James-“ began Q as he watched Bond turn his back on him and go. He fell back against the mattress and covered his head with his pillow. The tears came unbidden and Q was thankful for the bathroom door and the sound of the shower; they helped to muffle the sounds of his sobs. He wanted to run away. He wanted to go home. He wanted to pack his bag and leave. Fuck the assignment, fuck his equipment, and fuck the cold weather outside. Q wanted nothing more than to never have to face James Bond ever again. He was humiliated. And he was trapped in a small cottage in the middle of nowhere, Scotland. There was nowhere to go.

The sound of the shower stopped and Q wiped his tears away as best he could. He wrapped himself in the duvet and did the only thing he could think of: he rolled over on his side, facing away from the door, and feigned sleep. He heard Bond come back, felt him get in bed and wiggle about getting comfortable. And then there was nothing. Just silence. Bond didn’t even attempt to touch him.

Q felt miserable and as the minutes stretched into hours, he heard Bond’s breathing even out. The agent was asleep. Q lay there unable to rest and realized that he was quite possibly the most pathetic person in the world. He felt useless and stupid; these were unfamiliar sensations. He was not useless or stupid in any other area of his life. On the contrary, he always felt in full control of his environs in every other aspect. But when it came to sex… he was just fucking useless and obviously stupid. It hurt to be stupid. Deeply. And there was nothing for it.

“Bear down”? What the hell was “bear down”? Q shut his eyes tight and willed himself not to cry again. He felt his body shake with the effort. Could he really be that naive about anal sex? He was always so frightened with everyone else who had gotten close to him. He wasn’t frightened with Bond. The agent made it seem so simple, so natural, so easy. He thought it would be easy. It was all a lie. And now it was over. Bond would reject him. That would be the end.

In a strange way, it was a relief. If Bond gave him up as a lost cause, then he would stay away. Q wouldn’t feel threatened or intimidated by his superior knowledge in the bedroom. It wouldn’t matter because Bond wouldn’t be remotely interested ever again. Q could get on with his life. He wouldn’t have to worry about the flirting or the looks. It would be simple again. Alone was simple. Alone was easy. Alone was safe.

Q smiled weakly at the thought of being alone again. He would miss the physical touch, certainly, but that would soon pass. It would all be OK again soon enough. He breathed a sigh of relief and closed his eyes. He was exhausted and eventually sleep took him quickly and was mercifully dreamless. He would need his strength in the morning. They had a long awkward drive ahead of them tomorrow and Q hoped it would be a silent one.


	8. Chapter 8

Bond watched Q sleep for close to an hour the next morning. He was curled in his arms, a small tousle-haired creature, looking vulnerable and pale against his tanned skin, and Bond’s heart broke a little to remember the look in his eyes last night. He tried to understand it; Q was so wonderful and willing and then he pushed Bond away once he became confused. The agent could understand if Q had been abused; he could wait forever. But Q had denied had anything of the kind.

Bond’s first experience had been violent. He wouldn’t bottom again for years. He understood the fear involved with being violated.

He looked at Q’s eyelashes against his skin. He wanted to kiss his face but didn’t want to wake him. He had seemed so distraught and confused. Bond had attempted to make as tactful a retreat from the situation as he could. He was glad Q had turned away and attempted to sleep when he had come back to the room. He suspected Q was faking, but let the man have whatever dignity he had left. He didn’t want to argue. He hoped that Q would feel comfortable around him. He was hoping that being as they were so removed from London, Q would feel a bit more free to let go and relax. And for a while it worked. But perhaps it was too frightening for Q to be away from home. Here he had no safe haven. He had nowhere to go. Bond had hoped that his arms would be enough, but he was wrong.

All Bond wanted was someone to come home to where he didn’t have to pretend. He didn’t want to be alone, but it was looking like fate had dealt him that hand from the get-go. Married women were a nice distraction, and there was always Alec for the occasional intoxicated encounter, but he really couldn’t talk or be around or care for anyone long-term. Q seemed like such a logical solution to his problem: he was fully vetted and briefed and MI6-trained. He thought the strictly-business quartermaster would object to his advances, and to a certain degree, he was right. What he didn’t count on was Q having his own baggage. Bond kicked himself for not realizing it. Everyone had their own damage. Why should Q be different?

Bond had too much living under his belt. He had seen and done more things than most men had had the opportunity to ever want to do. MI6 was full of great ideas for him to occupy his time. But MI6 never provided for acceptable after-care that didn’t involve hospitalization or talking with someone who couldn’t empathize if you took them out into a battlefield and shoved a weapon in their hands. Q was privy to everything he went through, even going so far as logistical help, listening to all his mission transmissions. It suddenly struck Bond that out of anyone else, Q might ultimately be the only witness to his death. He held Q closer to him.

Q stirred in his sleep and nuzzled into Bond’s chest. He didn’t wake. Bond kissed his hair and closed his eyes, pressing his cheek against the man’s head. He would have to ask about Q’s sex history delicately; he was so private and proud. Bond knew about that in a man’s heart. He smoothed his hand over Q’s shoulder and arm, peeking at the skin that was at once so pliable and smooth and at the same time held wiry strength. Q was a living, breathing contradiction in terms. Bond both hated and loved that complexity.

There was a decision to be made here. He had to know if Q was going to be worth the struggle. Because if Q’s behavior was any indication, it would be easy to get to know him outside the bedroom, but between the sheets (where Bond was at his ease) he seemed positively paralyzed. Bond sighed and weighed his options. The life he’d been living so far was not pleasing: no one to come home to, constantly on his guard, rough missions that were difficult to come down from. He needed someone like Q to ease his burden.

The other side of the coin was dealing with Q and his hesitancy and fear about sex. But then, sex had a broad definition. Technically, they had already had sex. Bond supposed that Q didn’t count fellatio as sex, which was stupid really. It was called “oral sex” for a reason. Was this technical genius that socially stupid? Bond couldn’t help but feel concerned. It was as if this twenty-something man was really a spotty teen on his first date. It would be laughable if it weren’t so damned sad.

Bond kissed the top of Q’s head. How could he pity him when he was too proud to accept Bond’s pity? Q would be mortally insulted. Bond decided to let Q tell him how to approach him. He did it with marks in the field, why couldn’t the same psychology work here? And then he would have his safe haven when he came home and Q would have-

_What the hell would Q have?_

Q stirred and blinked sleepily at Bond. “Morning,” said the agent.

“Mmm,” said Q. He put his forehead to Bond’s chest and took a deep breath. “Morning.” Bond couldn’t help himself. He hugged Q to him and kissed his head. “Hey,” said Q. “You’re still here?”

“Where else would I be?” asked Bond.

“I don’t know,” said Q, his head still ducked low. “Considering last night’s disaster…”

“You thought I would leave you?” asked Bond. He rubbed Q’s back softly.

Q made his voice so small, Bond had to strain to hear him say: “Everyone does.”

In that instant, Bond knew what he would be able to give Q: company. He was so completely lonely it pained Bond. Still, he could show him no pity. Q would push him away hard for that. He had to tread carefully. He kissed him on his head again and said softly: “We’re a team, you and me. I told you that once, do you remember?” Q nodded. “Right then. Then remember this: I don’t desert my comrades in a firefight - even when the mission goes tits up. Alright?” Q nodded again but never raised his head. Bond did it for him with a fingertip under his chin. “Alright?” he repeated.

Q’s eyes were misty but steady. “Alright, James,” he said. Bond kissed him slowly and softly on the mouth, sliding fingertips along his jawline and down his neck. He snaked that warm hand along the back of Q’s neck and tangled his fingers in his hair.

“You don’t hate me,” said Q as the kiss broke.

“No,” said Bond. “Why would you ask me that? Did you assume the others hated you?”

“I didn’t exactly get the chance to ask,” said Q, pressing his cheek against Bond’s chest. “All I know is: they were gone. No goodbye most of the time. Or a break-up email afterward. None of them would face me. They’d all just bugger off and I’d be left with the questions. After a while, I just assumed that all they wanted was sex because they’d all leave right afterward - when they realized that I wasn’t willing to sleep with them. After that, I began to believe that I wasn’t worth anyone’s effort.”

Bond pulled Q’s face up to meet his eyes. “They were idiots.”

“Yes,” said Q. “I know.” He smiled weakly at Bond. “I have a sense of self-worth, James. It’s just that it’s difficult to keep a sense of self-worth when everyone you have an encounter with tells you essentially the same thing: you’re too much trouble to bother with.” Bond gave Q a sour expression. Q added: “I know it’s not really true. I know that I’m this amazing genius perfectly worthy of other’s love and affection. I just haven’t found anyone who agrees with that.”

“Well you have now,” said Bond.

Q’s heart ached a little at Bond’s declaration. “And I still feel as though I’m coming up short with you.”

“How so?”

“Last night…”

“Right,” said Bond, holding Q close and speaking into his hair. “Let’s not worry about last night. For the most part, it was wonderful.”

“It did have a good start, didn’t it?” said Q and tilted his head up to kiss Bond softly. “Please be patient with me.”

“Until the stars turn cold,” said Bond.

“James” Q sighed and the agent captured his lips once more. Their tongues danced around each other’s for several minutes, their hands seeking out places to caress and stroke as they fell into their heating passion. Bond dipped low for one of Q’s nipples and Q cried out, arching his back deliciously. Placing a hand on Q’s hip, Bond kissed his way down to the nest of dark hair just above Q’s cock. His dick was filling up by the second, but Bond looked to Q for permission anyway. “Please,” was all Q managed to say and Bond huffed hot breath over the shaft, the resulting moan from the quartermaster rendering Bond half-hard.

His left elbow propping him up, he licked a stripe up the shaft and took his cock in his right hand. Stroking it slowly, Bond watched as the cherry-red glans slipped under the foreskin only to be exposed again, over and over. Q had a beautiful cock. Bond glanced up, noticing Q’s lips had gone the same shade as his cock’s tip. He was biting his lower lip, eyes shut, breath deep. Bond trailed the tip of his tongue over the slit which was becoming shiny with precum.

“P-please, James,” begged Q. He placed a hand on Bond’s hair, not to force, but to suggest.

“Tell me what you want, Q,” said Bond in a low growl. He repositioned himself so that he could hover on Q’s right side, able to take Q’s cock in his left hand and his balls in his right.

“Take me in your mouth, James,” said Q. He could feel his cock throbbing in Bond’s warm hand. He needed this so badly.

Bond pulled the foreskin down, exposing the glans. He placed his lips to Q’s frenulum and hummed. Q came unglued. “Christ! James!” More precum came forth from the head and Bond swallowed Q’s tip, sucking off the sheen, dragging his lips over it to make it last. He swallowed him shallowly again, just working the head, as his hand stroked the shaft lightly.

“Oh my fucking god,” said Q. “Please, James. Please it’s like torture. You are so gorgeous.”

Bond glanced up at Q to see creamy jade eyes filled with lust. He circled his tongue around the corona and watched those eyes become mere slits and Q’s mouth drop open wider. “More,” Q keened.

Bond’s mouth enveloped Q’s cock and the agent took him in as far as he could. Sucking off of him gently, he repeated the action over and over, one hand a strong steady pressure at the base of the shaft, the other fondling his balls. He felt Q’s hand on his head, softly stroking through his hair. “You are so good to me, James,” said Q. “So fucking good.”

Bond pulled off of Q’s cock just as the man began to rock his hips with the rhythm of his fellating. He kept stroking his shaft with a firm grip and asked: “You’re balls are tight now, yes?” Q nodded, eyes shut. He was lost to the sensation. “Soon you’re going to feel a tension build in your body. Your muscles will go rigid. I want you to tell me when you get there.”

“Right,” said Q.

Bond went back to sucking Q off in a steady rhythm. Q rocked his hips slightly with the pace of it, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. He felt his abdomen tense up and his thigh muscles contract with the effort and the sensation. His sighs and cries became more erratic. His breath stuttered. Intense pleasure filled his senses. His cock felt so full. He tapped Bond on the shoulder. “Now,” he said.

Bond pulled off immediately and began to lightly stroke Q’s cock once more. “What? Oh… son of a…. God! Oh…” moaned Q.

“Let me keep you right here, Q,” said Bond. “Ride the wave of it until it begins to fade. Let me know when it’s falling away.” Q’s breath continued to stutter and he writhed a bit chasing the sensation that was slowly dissipating.

“It’s fading off, James,” said Q. In the next moment, he felt the warm wet of his mouth over his cock once more. Over and over he crested and fell, Bond catching him every time. Just when he thought he couldn’t handle it any longer, when his cock felt so full, when everything felt so complete, Bond would pull away and he would sink further into himself. The ebb and flow of it all was addictive; he never wanted James to stop.

“Do you want to cum this time?” he asked Q.

Q, sweat matting his fringe to his forehead, gave Bond a decided shake of his head: no, he wanted this forever. “Fuck,” managed Q. “Please, James, please…”

Bond gave him two more near-misses, enough to drown in his own sexual pleasure, and Q was keening and writhing as the crest fell away from him once more. “Suck me,” Q commanded. “Suck me off, James. Please. Your fucking mouth… shit.”

For a millisecond which felt like years, Bond’s presence disappeared. Q’s eyes flew open and he looked on almost helplessly as he saw Bond spreading lubricant over his hand. Their eyes met. “I want you to be OK with this,” said Bond softly. “I will stop if you say. But if you let me, I can give you the pleasure of a lifetime.”

Q hesitated only a moment before saying: “I lo- I trust you, James.”

Bond grinned. It was too soon for the “L” word. But at the same time…

He bent over Q’s cock once more and sucked him off in the same steady rhythm that had been working so well for five near-orgasms before. Slowly he circled one lubricated finger at Q’s opening. He felt the man tense for a second. With his next breath, he let go and Bond pushed in slowly. His finger was past his rings of flesh in moments and Q arched his back and rolled his head against the pillow with the pressure. Bond eyed him carefully, waiting for the first sign of resistance or objection. There was none.

Q anticipated the second finger and, despite his earlier confusion, bore down gently around the digits. It worked. There was little to no pain. The pressure was filling, but not overwhelming; this was what he had hoped it would be. He raised his left knee to his chest to give Bond better access and held it to him with a hand beneath his knee. “More,” he told the agent as he relaxed against the bed. He felt everything: the pillow, the sweat on his brow, the sheets against his skin, the softness of Bond’s hair, the heat of his body, the suck of his lips, the pressure in his arse. The last was a curiously welcome invasion and Q could feel the firmness of Bond’s hand as his hips did their unbidden undulations. His breath stuttered again. He was cresting once more.

Another quality built up with the addition of those fingers: the tightness formerly perceived in the base of his cock and his balls seemed to increase three-fold. And then Bond caused lightning to run through Q’s veins. Q arched his back convulsively; causing the fingers to penetrate deeper and causing Bond to lose his oral connection with Q. Q let out a cry and was practically weeping.

“Do you want me to stop, love?” asked Bond, watching helplessly, expecting for Q to run.

Q lowered himself carefully. “No,” he said. “No no no no noooo… More.”

Bond smirked and took Q’s cock into his mouth once more. Once found, the prostate was easily struck on almost every suck-off. Q responded beautifully, looking for all the world like a dying angel.

Soon Q was past the point of no return and he knew that he wanted to cum. “I- I want- Please… James. Let me cum,” he begged softly. The pleasure he was feeling was almost painful, the pressure was so great within him. Bond ran a hand to Q’s face and Q turned his head to suck Bond’s fingers. Contractions began at the base of his cock and he knew he was seconds from cumming. “I’m going to cum, James. Oh God!”

His hips snapped convulsively and Q barely registered his regret as he could feel Bond attempting to negotiate the cock that was shoving itself down his throat. Q felt the gush of cum exit him and with it there was a profound sense of relief and satisfaction. It was as close to nirvana as he could hope to achieve and once released, he fell limp against the mattress.

He felt Bond pull off and out of him, his velvet tongue licking at his cock, but he was past caring. He felt like a pot of jam: wibbley and loose. He heard words in his ear, felt breath against his skin, body heat of his lover against him and the words registered: “Amazing. Beautiful. Gorgeous. _Mine._ ”

“Yours, James,” he managed. “Yours… always.”

For all his worry and fear, this was where Q knew he belonged. James was different. He understood. He needed Q just as much as Q needed him. They were a team; a completely unstoppable undivided team. He didn’t care about reciprocation or what experiences Q had had. He was content just to be with him. That alone was a fucking miracle. And he didn’t have to keep secrets with James either. As sleep took him that morning, Q smiled contentedly.

Bond watched Q drift off into the ether of his after-glow. It may be a bit before Q would bottom for him, but that didn’t really matter. There was pleasure to be had in awakening this man to his own sexual experiences. There was power in the trust Q gave him. It was enough for Bond. He pushed Q’s fringe from his face and curled up next to him. Soon Bond too was fast asleep, but not before thinking that Q was not only worth the effort, he was worth everything.


End file.
